The Watchmaker
by Forge2
Summary: Sylar and his captor have a little chat about being special...HeroesDoctor Who


The Watchmaker

Back and forth, back and forth, and back again. The watchmaker limped. His leg hurt but he had to keep active, not there wasn't much to do in this cell of his. An old mattress with springs poking out and a bucket were the accoutrements. He snarled. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was special, better. It was a simple matter of evolution. The strong survive and the weak fall…or serve. This was how the world worked, and that was the watchmaker's specialty. How things work, what makes them tick. He rubbed his wrist absently. He would give almost anything to know how his manacles worked. One for each wrist, cold metal rendering his powers sterile and useless. Trapped by metal, flesh and bars, he was only human, merely Gabriel Gray the watchmaker's son. He struck the bars angrily. He drew a deep shuddering breath. Now his hand hurt but he didn't care. Pain was nature's way of telling you that you were still alive. This was a false weakness, his humanity imposed. He was better, stronger, faster, smarter. Remove the metal and be whole again, be Sylar. And he'd tried, oh how he'd tried. The Company had held him prisoner once, a lifetime ago. Locked in a box with no way out, but he'd escaped eventually. But that was then, this was now and now he was broken, lost..._ordinary_.

He used to be able to fix what was broken. It was simple, natural, beautiful. But how do you fix yourself? He couldn't see, couldn't understand how he was trapped, how his abilities had been caged so well. They'd offered him a job, in the beginning, but Sylar bowed to no one, served no one. He was special…but not special enough. He was nothing but a shiny new toy for his captor to play with, and not even the favorite toy. Nor the second for that matter, no he was the third, a mere curiosity. His captor just wanted to know what made him tick. Sylar could appreciate that. After all, there was nothing Sylar would rather do then find out just how special his captor was. Except, of course, escape.

The outer door slid open smoothly. The two guards snapped to rigid attention. The newcomer nodded curtly toward the door, and with a salute the guards walked out. Behind them the door clanged shut.

"Hello Gabriel," the man said. He waved happily, as if this were a meeting of old friends, and not of a captor and his prisoner. Sylar grit his teeth. He hated being called Gabriel, but of course the other man knew that, reveled in even the smallest victory. "Wow," the man whistled, looking Sylar up and down. "You are a mess. Just because you're locked up doesn't mean you should ignore basic hygiene." Sylar glared. "Ah! The silent treatment. You're not mad at me…are you Gabriel?" His face was the picture of wounded pride. "Why can't we all just get along? You're smart considering. The only one even remotely worthy to be my second."

"I'm no one's servant," Sylar said quietly. His tone would have sent shivers of fear down anyone else's spine, but his captor just smiled.

"It's the basic law of life. One must rule or serve and this is my sandbox."

"When I get my abilities back, I'm going to kill you slowly, and then I'll find out what makes your hearts go pitter pat."

His captor threw his head back and laughed. "Your abilities? You're a pathetic little ape with delusions of grandeur. For all your little party tricks in the end that's all you are…merely human. There are entire species in the black who can do what you can one way or another. You're only special when compared to the rest of this backwater planet."

"And you're only a ruler on this backwater planet," Sylar snarled.

The other man leaned in conspiratorially. "Not for long," he whispered.. His eyes were alight with almost childlike glee. "The fleet is almost ready. War is come. Can you imagine anything more beautiful? The whole galaxy burning, screaming…"

Sylar tilted his head. In his mind's eye he could see it so clearly. Blood dripping slowly down his captor's forehead, stark against pale skin. Yes, Sylar could indeed imagine something more beautiful. He could be patient, but sooner or later his time would come. He'd be free and then they'd pay, all of them but especially his captor, his tormentor--the self-proclaimed Lord & Master. This riddle had an answer, the puzzle a solution, and Sylar would find it. He matched the Master smile for twisted smile, and for a moment, but only a moment, the Master felt the stirrings of fear.

"Tell me, Gabriel," he asked as he always did. "can you hear them yet?" In a single practiced motion he drew his screwdriver, aimed and fired. Sylar fell to the ground writhing in pain but he never screamed. Though his body was wracked with waves upon waves of pure pain, he felt nothing. He was far away deep within his own mind. But even buried in his favorite fantasy, standing triumphant over the Master's body, in the distance he could hear the faint sound of drums…

Fin


End file.
